Priority Mail
by brokenseraphim
Summary: A newbie at Avalanche Delivery Services, Cloud expected to suffer through many hardships. The lecherous, obsessive customers of Floor 49 weren't one of them.  ASGZC
1. Floor 49

**Summary:** A newbie at Avalanche Delivery Services, Cloud expected to suffer through many things. The lecherous, obsessive customers of Floor 49 weren't one of them. AGSCZ

**Disclaimer:** I do not own what belongs to Square Enix.

**Priority Mail**

**Chapter One: Floor 49**

Cloud Strife didn't find himself particularly appalling. In fact, he thought that he was rather attractive with his prided blue eyes and gravity defying blond spikes. But as he stood at room 4901 on floor forty nine of the Shinra Apartment Building, he had to question just how decent he was.

With his unoccupied hand, he brushed the bottom of his nose subtly, wondering if he had some stray boogers bouncing at his nostril. He checked: nothing. Cloud poked his tongue out quickly and swept them across his lips for any evidence of the powdered donut he had for breakfast. Clean. Slyly, he pretended to rub weariness from his face when he was actually checking if he had forgotten to pick the yellow crust around his eyes. But again, nothing.

Coughing awkwardly into the palm of his gloved hand Cloud finally let his gaze, which had previously been engaged to the floor, shift up. The man was still staring.

"Um. Your package, Mr—" Cloud glanced down at the box cradled under his left arm, "—Fair."

But Mr. Fair seemed far too busy staring wide eyed at the poor delivery boy, lips slightly parted, eyebrows peaking impossibly.

Cloud fought the tinge of pink from his cheeks. He felt embarrassed, uncomfortable, violated, annoyed, and frustrated all at once. Simply put, he was utterly flustered. Clearing his throat again, Cloud spoke a bit louder. "If you would just sign here, Mr. Fair." _Then I could be on my jolly fucking way,_ the blond thought wryly. This was getting tiresome.

Again, Mr. Fair seemed devoid of any expression besides the atrocious one currently plastered across his face. He continued to gape, and Cloud continued to silently fume. Their silent staring contest dragged on for another fifteen seconds before Cloud finally lost it.

The poor man contemplated heaving the package onto his shoulder and shot putting it into the apartment beyond or shoving it conspicuously into the black-haired man's gut so hard he'd keel over. Or all three. But courteous, well-mannered, civilized Cloud did none of this. Instead, he simply bent his knees slightly and placed the box down next to Mr. Fair's shoes where he couldn't possibly miss it.

Standing, he brushed imaginary dust from his palms as if he was congratulating himself after a job well done and sighed. Slightly irritated, Cloud noted that Mr. Fair had yet to close his mouth and that when he offered a polite smile, his mouth only flapped wider.

"Good day to you, Mr. Fair."

Quickly, without trying to be obvious about his desperate need to get out of there before he exploded and right hooked Mr. Fair in the face, Cloud pivoted and stiffly made his way down the hall to the elevator. He didn't turn around until he was safely within the confines of the metal contraption and as the doors shifted close, Cloud smugly noticed that Mr. Fair had finally acknowledged the box at his feet, had picked it up, and was stumbling back into his apartment.

Cloud hoped he never had to come back here.

* * *

><p>In some cruel twist of fate, Cloud realized that he was indeed back <em>here<em>.

But why? _Why_? What were the chances that he'd be sent back here—to the same building, on the same floor, to the same apartment, to the same person, within a matter of three days? One in a thousand, one in a million! Cloud groaned and glared menacingly at the innocent cardboard box that fit snuggly in the crook of his elbow.

"It's all your fault," he hissed. "All your bloody damn fault."

"I wasn't aware that boxes could do harm."

Cloud's head snapped up to finally take in the presence of the only other person in the elevator for the first time since he'd step into the all too familiar contraption. The man was taller than him (which wasn't a particularly surprising feat), broad shouldered, obviously well-built, and had the most gorgeous cascade of silver hair Cloud had ever seen.

The delivery boy refused to blush.

Stiffly, he muttered back, "I didn't know that there was someone else here. Sorry."

The silver haired man, who had previously preoccupied his attention with the elevator doors finally tilted his head at him and quirked a brow in a "How do you not realize there's someone standing two feet away from you in a five by five metal encasement?" sort of way. Blatantly, he looked at Cloud with ludicrously bright green eyes, giving him a good, slow gaze from the tip of his issued brown boots to the fire truck red cap that squashed his spikes down. He let out a disapproving grunt. "I see. Avalanche Delivery, hm? I'll have to remind myself not to order any of their services lest I be beaten to death by cardboard. That doesn't seem to be a particularly exciting way to pass on."

The blond twenty-three year old lost the losing battle and felt his skin warm up to the tip of his ears. Embarrassment didn't go well with him.

Cloud only grunted hoarsely in response and began to scatter his attention to anything but the piece of intimidating man meat next to him. He fiddled with his belt for a while before pulling at the collar of his uniform polo and shifted the box from his left side to his right. That lasted about five seconds. Clearing his throat again, he let his blue eyes roam the elevator compartment; six wads of old, dried gum, three bouts of tagging in black sharpie, lots and lots of silver (lots of it), and a glowing 49.

He stiffened and dragged his eyes back to stare at the rows of numbers, horrified. Forty-nine. _Forty-nine_. There were two people in the elevator, and one button glowing back tortuously back at him. Inwardly, he crumpled up and died. Cloud really didn't think he could stand being within a radius of less than thirty one yards with this man much longer. Especially when said man probably thought he was some scrawny, freak of a delivery boy who talked to boxes in his free time because he had no real friends after having been sexually petted by his high school calculus teacher. Who was probably really hairy, like a bear. Or something.

Cloud realized that he might have been exaggerating a bit and that, logically, no one in the world would really come to that conclusion about him but he didn't care because that accursed number was still grinning back at him.

Forty-nine.

How he hated it.

They shook to a stop and without a second glance, Cloud tumbled out of the minuscule elevator as fast as he could while still managing to look civil. His eyes desperately searched for the bronze imprint of apartment 4901, unable to block out the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. What is just him, or were they getting eerily closer?

"You're going crazy, Cloud," he muttered to himself tragically.

"A plausible deduction." Inwardly, Cloud's dead body ripped itself to pieces.

He stood motionless. Thoughts were running hysterically through his head but Cloud couldn't really comprehend any of it over the incessant trill of curses that whipped any other thought into submission. _Fuck me_, Cloud thought, eyes shut hysterically tight in concentration, a gloved hand coming to squeeze at the bridge of his nose. He was trying to hypnotize himself into thinking the world was indeed a better place where poop glittered and semen was a replenishing lotion that cured acne when freshly applied.

Again, embarrassment didn't go well with Cloud Strife. Not in the least bit. Fresh out of college, Cloud didn't consider himself particularly intelligent or witty, but he had common sense. He was nice enough—a bit antisocial, but nice. The delivery boy could seem cold sometimes, and a bit dazed, but really he had good will and just had trouble expressing himself—the only emotion he seemed to have absolutely zero trouble conveying was embarrassment. It expressed itself to the very tip of his toes. The bastard.

Vaguely, Cloud felt himself being pushed softly aside. He pried one eye slightly open and as the man passed by him to the door, a loose strand of silver hair brushed right past Cloud's cheek and the blond resisted the urge to twist his fingers in it and rip it clear out of the man's scalp.

Before the man even had a chance to twist the doorknob open though, it swung smoothly open and Cloud caught a bit of spiky black hair beyond the broad, cotton clad shoulder in front of him.

Inwardly, the pieces of Cloud's body threw themselves into piss and acid.

_Mr. Fair_ had daintily popped open the door, grinning from ear to ear. When he caught sight of the silver-haired man though, he noticeably deflated—shoulders slumping, lips put into a pout, and eyebrows furrowed. It reminded Cloud vaguely of a kicked puppy. Or a dead one.

"Oh, it's you, Seph," Mr. Fair said with no effort in hiding his dissatisfaction.

To this blatant display of disappointment, the man called Seph said nothing. He merely side stepped Mr. Fair and walked into the apartment after saying in the most deadpan voice Cloud had ever heard, "Be careful. Apparently the box is dangerous."

Cloud Strife was sure his cheeks were red. Blood red. Red as fucking red could be.

At this, Mr. Fair had snapped back up and stared directly at Cloud, as if he's just seen a pair of hairy testicles pop out beneath Cloud's chin. Somewhere in the back of Cloud's mind, he realized that Seph's gargantuan frame had been hiding his own smaller one before.

The delivery boy met Mr. Fair's intense gaze and shifted uncomfortably. A grin was forming on Mr. Fair's face, slowly stretching his lips against white teeth and brightening his eyes. Under different circumstances, Cloud might have found it endearing but these weren't different circumstances and Cloud just felt disturbed, terribly disturbed.

"Mr. Fair, sir. Good afternoon." Cloud nodded at him cautiously.

The man was still grinning. And staring. Cloud found himself missing the blank, gaping staring more than this one—he almost wished Seph would return and humiliate him into a pile of pink goo so he could slither away down a ventilation shaft, into a toilet, and with some stranger's diarrhea induced excrement, be cast into some unforgiving corner of the ocean.

"Your package, Mr. Fair," Cloud said stiffly and then held the box out towards the customer, hoping he'd get the hint.

Fortunately, he did. He grabbed the box from Cloud's hands, practically clasping them as he took it into his own arms and to Cloud's dismay, haphazardly tossed it somewhere behind him into the apartment. The blond swore the box had read "Fragile: Handle with care."

"My name's Zack!"

"Yes, sir. I'm sure it is."

"You can call me Zack!"

"That would be a bit unprofessional, sir."

And suddenly, _Zack_ had grabbed onto Cloud's own gloved ones tightly and was abnormally close. "Call me Zack. I'm sure we can be a bit…unprofessional."

Vaguely, Cloud registered that Zack's previously loud, energetic voice had magically dropped an octave and was almost too husky and low that he couldn't make out the syllables. Cloud was more than terribly disturbed by now. A few seconds passed with Mr. Fair peering lecherously down at Cloud, hot breath creeping down the brim of his red hat, eyes narrowing and peering down into sky blue eyes, and Cloud realized that he wasn't going to let go.

Turning his head to the side, and feeling wronged and confused, Cloud grunted to clear his throat before finally muttering, "Zack."

Then he was gone, hands, body heat, hot breath. Everything. Zack took a step back, grin plastered back onto his lips and said in his energetic voice again, "See? Now we're friends—" Zack scanned his body and finally rested on the name tag pinned to Cloud's chest, "—Cloud! Cloud Strife. Zack Fair and Cloud Strife, best of friends! Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

The blond could only nod. All the previous irritation and frustration with this hyper ball of activity had flown out a window and instead, left Cloud feeling awkward and baffled. He had trouble keeping up with Zack's hectic body language, overly expressive eyes, and vigorous talking. Perhaps the black-haired man was draining Cloud's life force and that's why he had such abundance of energy—a bit of Cloud really believed it.

Ignoring Zack's ramble about friendship, Cloud held out a clipboard and pen. "If you could sign, Mr. F—Zack."

Again, Zack smiled goofily at him and happily grabbed the clipboard and pen from the blonde's offering hands. As he scribbled away, he asked, "Been working long, Cloud?"

Cloud was quiet for a while, before deciding that there was no harm in making small talk with a friendly—albeit too friendly—customer. "No," he answered. "I started this week."

"Ah. That explains it. Didn't think I ever saw you around before."

"Yes."

"Not much of a talker, are you?"

"No."

"Well that's okay, because I am. I'm sure we'll get along just fine, Cloud." Zack had finished signing and handed Cloud back the clipboard and pen respectively, smile still playing absurdly wide across his lips. They were quiet for a moment, as Cloud put the clipboard back into his messenger bag and the pen in his chest pocket, Zack just watching. Then suddenly, he had reached out a palm and laid it heavily on Cloud's capped head, rubbing to and fro as if he meant to ruffle Cloud's hair. He only managed to shove the brim over Cloud's eyes and the blond frantically pushed it back up, not very much a touchy person either. As usual, Zack spoke first. "You're cute, Cloud."

To Cloud's own surprise, he wasn't flustered, embarrassed, or even shocked. Rather, he merely struggled in finding out how to respond. It wasn't like he hadn't been told that before but even so; it had been from girls, never one of his own gender to say something so coquettish. He contemplated being outraged, angrily demanding Zack take it back because there was no way in the world Cloud could possibly be _cute_. But that seemed forced. Perhaps he should just say thank you, but that seemed either too dismissive or too bold.

Luckily, Cloud didn't have to decide because Zack, again, made the first move. The blond was shaken out of his reverie as he felt fingers tugging at his chin, bringing his face up to look into the man's darker blue eyes. That husky voice was back, and inches from his face, Zack breathily whispered "Way too cute" before diving in.

It was soft, chaste, and ended all too soon for Cloud's slow, blank mind to fully wrap around the situation. He stood there dumbly, eyes still wide, chin still tilted up-frozen.

In the back of the head, he registered that Zack had chuckled heartily before stepping back behind the threshold of his apartment and had said something along the lines of, "I'll see you later, Cloud" before gingerly closing the door shut.

Horrendously slow, Cloud brought his fingers up to his lips, piecing together what just happened after long, long seconds. Against his lips, his hand fisted in an emotion Cloud couldn't name and his head drooped so the brim of his red, red hat overshadowed his eyes.

The blush came back with a vengeance.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

A chapter story...quite a risk for me really. I have this atrocious tendency to abandon fanfiction for a year and hopefully, this motivation streak won't keel over by this weekend otherwise this story might join my other ones in gathering dust, incomplete. Luckily though, I'm about half way through chapter two which features Angeal and Genesis. Look forward to it!

bs

Thanks to **shadesofimagination** and **underhandlilie**s for editing!


	2. Room 4901

**exSummary:** A newbie at Avalanche Delivery Services, Cloud expected to suffer through many things. The lecherous, obsessive customers of Floor 42 weren't one of them. AGSCZ

**Priority Mail**

**Chapter Two: **Room 4901

To Cloud's surprise and relief he didn't receive a notice to hike his ass over to Shinra Apartment Building until a week after the UI: Unmentionable Incident—the blond had dubbed it himself. A week had been enough for him to slather on some heavy frosting and rainbow sprinkles until the UI was no longer recognizable. Then the poor man in denial had stuffed that Unidentifiable Item into the back of his refrigerator to rot.

But as he stood in front of the familiar elevator doors he could feel it all creeping back. The short man had been rummaging through the fridge of his mind for strawberry milk on the top shelf only to hook onto the cake and have it topple onto his face. Getting vanilla frosting and sprinkles stuck in his nostrils, the lashes of his eyes, and the back of his throat. It refused to be ignored.

And it made Cloud Strife feel dirty and used.

And dramatic, extremely dramatic.

With that clarified, Cloud took one more heart-wrenching look at the elevator doors before side-stepping it and began to forlornly search for the stairs. He certainly couldn't risk another repeat of last week's verbal mocking. Just the thought of silver hair made the poor man's finger itch to tear something out.

Cloud quickly found the door to the staircases and upon opening it, groaned miserably. The endless void of stairs almost had him backtracking to the lovely air conditioned elevator, but the thought of bitter green eyes had him shutting the door fiercely and taking the first step. Besides, Cloud reasoned, staircase climbing would be good for his physique… and it would give him time to prepare himself for his confrontation with whatever evil awaited him at the end of his pilgrimage.

By Floor Five, a fine layer of sweat had built around his temples. By Floor Twelve, he was panting and spitting loogies carelessly. By Floor Seventeen, his legs were shaking and wobbling all over until he was doing the foxtrot. By Floor Eighteen, he had collapsed in a corner: sweating, panting, spitting, shaking, and wobbling all at once. Cloud simply wasn't one for stamina.

"Damn," he wheezed. "Just…damn."

Swept messily into the corner of Floor Eighteen in the Shinra Apartment Building, Cloud Strife began his self-pitying session. His red, red hat lay tragically discarded.

What on the Planet had he done to deserve this? Why did he have to trudge forty-nine flights of titanic stairs? Why did he have to put in effort to avoid abnormally, tall, good-looking, sadistic, silver-haired men? Why was he assigned this accursed zip code?

Why was he wet?

Cloud Strife groaned in frustration for the umpteenth time that day as he hesitantly dragged his eyes down to stare at his lap. In his fit of self-pity, he had squeezed the water bottle he'd been drinking out of much too hard and in a vengeance unheard of, the water decided to squelch out and make its home on his crotch and shirt. His now thin, white, see-through polo shirt.

"Shit," he growled. "Just…shit."

Muttering curse after curse, Cloud frantically searched through his messenger bag for something to clean his mess with—completely deaf to the incessant thumps getting closer to him. He was much too preoccupied with his current, completely _horrendous _situation. Cloud shoved the palm-sized cardboard box he was supposed to deliver angrily aside and finally snatched the white napkins he got from his lunch at Subways days before.

With the fury and vulgarity of his motorcycle's technician, Cloud rubbed at himself. His face was bright pink from sheer frustration as sweat continued to twist his hair into thick, dirty clumps.

Cloud didn't notice the loud thumps of heavy footsteps until they stopped, leaving the tower of steps unbearably silent.

The delivery boy froze, wishing to whatever goddess out there that if he'd stay still enough he would somehow turn invisible or manifest into a half-decapitated cockroach. Then this stranger would just skip on by and say, "Oh. Look! It's a half-decapitated cockroach" and not "Oh. Look! It's an Avalanche delivery boy who's sweating, panting, blushing, moist, and is ferociously rubbing his wet crotch with a napkin advertising foot longs. Oho! I can see his nipples!"

The equally frozen work boots at the very edge of his vision told him that the Goddess wasn't feeling merciful today.

Coughing his awkwardness away as he usually did, Cloud lifted his head achingly slow. His pink face couldn't resist the all-encompassing cringe. Dark brown boots covering large feet, faded blue jeans hugging thick thighs, powerful arms gripping brown grocery bags, black v-neck hugging a broad chest, stubble dotting an unshaven chin, and absolutely, wholly, stunned eyes.

_Fuck, _Cloud thought. _Just…fuck._

Voice scratchy as if someone had just forced vanilla frosting covered, rainbow sprinkled Unmentionables deep into his mouth, the mystery man spoke first: "I'm sorry for intruding." They stared at each other for another moment before he mirrored Cloud's awkward cough and stiffly continued. "I'll just be on my way."

Cloud watched the stranger slowly tiptoe around his slouched body to the upper floor, unable to properly respond. He was thinking at impossible speeds, thinking impossibly incomprehensible thoughts. And his cheeks were only getting redder and redder.

Of course!

Why couldn't Cloud just explain his situation? It'd be so easy! Just tell the man that he was taking the stairs because he was avoiding a sadistic bastard and had gotten so exhausted because he was never one for endurance and had sat down, thrown off his hat, and of course he would be shaking, panting, and sweating. And while sitting down, he was thinking really, really hard and while he was thinking really, really hard, he had squeezed his water bottle really, really hard and—

"I sprained my ankle," Cloud Strife blurted.

Oh, _yes_. Cloud Strife, the twenty-three year old, somewhat sexually confused delivery boy extraordinaire, really didn't like being embarrassed—much less staying that way.

Cloud's new deus ex machina stopped mid-step and turned his head to the blond. The two stared at each other for another long moment with a silence so thick Cloud was sure even his flaming headed roommate's pre-ejaculating penis could slice through.

But Cloud neither needed to concern himself with slicing nor ejaculating as the large man abruptly cast his grocery bags sloppily aside into a useless heap. He swiftly kneeled next to the innocent, maimed victim and asked in the most soft, caring voice Cloud had ever heard, "Which foot?"

It was almost all too heroic.

Said innocent, maimed victim answered, "Right" and moaned in utter agony as the older man lifted his foot gently into his lap. Cloud felt like a complete asshole but even so, he continued to whimper and groan spectacularly as the black-haired man tilted his foot to and fro. This was a necessary evil, Cloud convinced himself.

"It looks bad, but not too serious," the older man muttered.

Cloud felt even worse as he caught sight of the cluttered, worried frown on the other's face—lips tugged conspicuously down, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed too close—but he quickly squeezed his lids closed tight again. After all, Cloud was in excruciating pain.

"We should be able to take care of this with some rest and ice."

In a sudden rush of movement, poor, suffering Cloud caught the stranger tossing _his_ cap into _his _messenger bag and then he swung _his_ messenger bag onto thick shoulders—Cloud did not have thick shoulders. The blond grumbled, "Excuse me, but—"

And then Cloud was flying.

What.

Cloud went wide-eyed. Within the constraints of flesh, his eyes wiggled to and fro frantically, trying to discern what was going on for his sanity's sake. The floor was too far below him, the ceiling not far enough, and the wall to his left was tepid and pulsing as it pressed against his cheek. He caught sight of a fuzzy chin no less than six inches away from his face and then it hit him: this firm, breathing thing to his side was indeed a fine sample of man chest.

Dazed, confused, and more than anything, disturbed, Cloud spluttered, "What are you d—"

"I'm taking you to my apartment to get this ankle of yours fixed. Don't worry; the injury is slight enough that it shouldn't take too long. Proper treatment and you'll be good to go in no time," the man answered. He spoke confidently, but not forcefully.

The delivery boy wanted to inform this Good Samaritan that, naturally, he was much more concerned about being lugged into a suspicious stranger's apartment rather than the amount of time it'd take to heal his nonexistent injury. But Cloud happened to open his lips at the wrong moment.

Stubble, as Cloud named him, had chosen that exact second to jostle his body into a better position and the blond was greeted with a mouthful of cotton. With the reflexes of a cactuar, Cloud jerked his head back, hoping the rubbery nub he had felt against his tongue was not in fact, a nipple.

Stubble might be muscular, selfless, and amiable, but Cloud was quickly tiring with his incessant interruptions. No matter how he went about doing it.

Trying not to let trivialities get to him, Cloud once more attempted to voice his thoughts. "Excuse me, sir—"

"Angeal. My name is Angeal."

Interrupted, again.

"Angeal," Cloud repeated obediently, blue eyes glaring at the fuzzy chin in front of it. "I'm grateful for your help. Really, I am. But I don't think going to your apartment is the best of ideas."

"I understand your sentiments Cloud Strife—" Angeal smiled as said delivery boy quickly fumbled his hands across his chest protectively. He needed to get rid of that damned name tag somehow. "—but I can't possibly treat you here. And most certainly, I couldn't leave an injured man to rot in a corner of a stairwell. It wouldn't bode well on my chest."

Cloud parted his lips to tell Angeal that only thing boding on his chest was him _literally_, but was, as usual, interrupted.

"You _are_ injured, aren't you?"

That shut him up.

Lips pursed tight, he nodded.

"Right," Angeal started, "I hope you understand Cloud that taking you to my apartment allows me access to the tools I need to properly treat your ankle. Sounds better than hailing an ambulance so you can pay two hundred dollars for letting them stick ice on you, doesn't it?"

Just as rigid as before, Cloud nodded. He still refused to make eye contact.

Angeal chuckled good-naturedly and Cloud tried to ignore the rumbling of the man's chest against his cheek. "If it makes you feel any better Cloud, I promise I won't do anything bad. Or at least, anything of the sort you're worrying yourself over."

_How peachy,_ the blond thought dryly.

Well if this man decided that juggling groceries, messenger bags, and strangers kept bad bodings off his chest, who was Cloud to deny him? Opinion confirmed, the blond allowed Angeal to heave whatever burdens he brought upon himself out the staircase doors, across the carpet hallway, and into a snuggly empty elevator.

Other people in Cloud's predicament might be ferociously thinking of ways in how they could slither out of the situation, muttering excuses or blurting the truth. But Cloud was not a part of 'other people' and instead found himself vacantly gazing at the fluorescent fixtures beyond Angeal's nostrils, occupied with something along the lines of deep fried chocobos and jock straps. He still couldn't quite comprehend how he was chugging water one moment and in the next, was sprawled across a strapping lumberjack's arms. Thinking was never his forte.

Cloud had begun to doze off by the time the elevator chimed and spilled them out on the desired level—that stair hike must have taken more out of him than he thought. Lazily, he yawned. Distantly, leagues away from where Cloud drifted, Angeal was ringing a doorbell and yelling, "Genesis, open the door for me! My hands are full."

After three more persistent shoulders to the doorbell, the door finally swung open.

And that's when everything came crashing down and Cloud finally realized just how big his mistake had been.

It happened as Angeal was jostling him in his arms, palms arranging and rearranging themselves on the bottom half of Cloud's body as he tried to squeeze into the doorway. Having hair pulled out by the door hinge had Cloud snapping his eyes wide and in that single instant, he spotted it.

Off to the side, barely within his range of vision, in elegant bronze numbers: 4901.

* * *

><p>Wow, it's been a while. I actually wrote this chapter a couple years ago but never went about uploading it. In a fit of nostalgia, I came upon it again and decided that I might as well put it up if I had it.<p>

Thanks for reading!

bs


	3. Bachelor(s) Pad

**Summary:** A newbie at Avalanche Delivery Services, Cloud expected to suffer through many things. The lecherous, obsessive customers of Floor 42 weren't one of them. AGSCZ

**Priority Mail**

**Chapter Three: Bachelor(s) Pad**

The Goddess had cursed Cloud from the very moment he was conceived.

He was sure of it.

For circumstances never revealed, Cloud Strife was born a premature five weeks early and this unfortunate circumstance has haunted him all his life. He was a tiny baby, a tiny kid, a tiny tween, a tiny teen. It wasn't until he hit his twenty-first birthday that Cloud could be considered a decent size. Sure, he was still relatively short for his age but after many years of self-esteem issues and being dragged to the gym by a one-armed, burly black man, Cloud had toughened up.

He was sure of it.

But somehow, all of those push-ups, bicep curls, sprinted miles, and racial slurs spat by a one-armed, burly black man seemed entirely inconsequential as the blond gaped wide-eyed at the two men looming over him.

The Goddess was one fucked-up bitch.

"Who the hell is this, Angeal?"

"Be nice, Genesis."

"Be _nice_, don't tell me to be nice you lumbering buffoon! Now answer my question: what the hell is this brat doing here?"

"That wasn't your question, though."

"I will kill you."

"Then you wouldn't have your question answered."

"You little—Fine, answer my question…then I shall kill you."

At the particular moment, Cloud really wished that some kind soul would put _him_ out of his misery. He felt ready to heave his guts through his esophagus and strangle his wretched self with the loop of his small intestine. His head hurt, his heart hurt, his soul had long been discarded to some far corner of the cosmos. Why, why, why did this have to happen to him? What could he have possibly done to deserve this?

He'd been a good boy, he swore. Sure, there was that time he purple-nurpled his huge breasted best friend, but he was drunk! Besides, that was an accident—a big, terrible, terrible, accident that landed him in the ER with a three broken fingers and a punctured lung. But that's beside the point! Cloud Strife lived his life in all simple goodness. So what if there were times where he messed up and crossed some lines that should never have been crossed (purple nurple), for the most part, he lived civilly and was most gracious for what was given to him. No matter what sins he may have committed in the past, Cloud was certain that none of it deserved _this_.

Though, in all honesty, Cloud wasn't even sure what _this _was or how _this_ had happened. All he knew was that _this_ made him mighty, mighty uncomfortable.

Through big, bright, blue eyes Cloud watched the two men above him squabble—or rather one was squabbling like a chicken with Ebola while the other simply watched him foam at the mouth, obviously amused. Cloud decided the Ebola chicken, or Genesis, as Angeal called him, was the biggest diva he'd ever lay eyes on. With some horrid mix between mirth, annoyance, and utmost terror, Cloud gaped as the red-haired man brought it upon himself to assault the black-haired one with a frying pan and genuine bloodlust. The blonde only continued to gawk as Angeal deflected the flying pan with one hand as if he were used to such raging attempts at his life and Genesis went flying across the room—cooking ware and Ebola and everything.

What the hell was wrong with these people?

Cloud's stomach lurched viciously when Angeal's darker blue eyes turned to him. Good lord, he was smiling at him. That had to mean either death by suffocation or heated man-rape. Or both.

"Sorry about that Cloud. Now let's get to treating that ankle of yours, shall we?"

"You know, I actually am feeling much better," Cloud rambled, desperate to get away. Fuck, if he was going to stay in this godforsaken place with these man-raping homicidal lunatics for another minute. "In fact I feel just jolly, good peachy fine. So I'll just get up and go and—"

The blond was swinging his legs off the couch and about to stand but stopped instantly as a broad hand gripped his shoulder. Gulping, the smaller man looked up that hand, up the forearm, up the bulging biceps, and into Angeal's ever-smiling eyes that hid a menacing somberness that quite frankly, scared Cloud shitless.

"—or not."

Cloud swung his legs back on to the couch, cross his arms stiffly across his chest, and laid back on that couch, ready to accept whatever hell the Goddess deemed necessary to thrust upon him. If this gorgeous leather couch was to be his deathbed, then so be it. At twenty-three years old, Cloud Strife had given up on life.

"Good," Angeal's intimidating arm removed itself from Cloud's shoulder and the large man looked around the room. "Genesis, be nice and keep Cloud company while I go get some ointment and ice for his ankle."

"Again with your damned preaching, Angeal! Don't think that just because you're some oversized primate that you can order me around. Do you not know who I am? I am Genesis Rhapsodos and I—"

"Genesis." Cloud trembled at the sudden menace that came from Angeal's usually quaint voice. "Be nice, unless you want a repeat of last night."

Last night? Last night? Last night? What the fuck happened last night? Cloud's eyes frantically looked between the two men, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. Someone tell him what the fuck happened last night! The delivery boy's anxiety only escalated detrimentally as the Genesis the raving, proud, Ebola chicken diva waddled towards him in defeat and—oh Goddess, was he blushing? Someone tell him what the hell happened last night! Please!

Cloud jerked vehemently as Genesis, still muttering beneath his breath, settled on the floor next to where his head lay against the armrest. Angeal had long disappeared to lord knows where.

After a good few seconds of, no doubt, casting curses, Genesis suddenly looked up into Cloud's eyes, throwing the blonde into a twitching fit.

"Cloud, is it?" Goddess, why was the man always sneering?

"Nghumm." Cloud had tried to say yes, but all he could manage was a strangled, gurgling noise. But Genesis seemed to get the message—that or he just liked to hear himself talk.

"And you what? Strained your ankle on the stairs? What kind of incompetent moron are you to have accomplished such a pathetic feat? Now you're here in my apartment, in my living room, taking up my time, breathing my air. What a nuisance."

_Well_, Cloud thought wryly, _someone's full of himself._

But Cloud didn't mind so much. He merely watched doe-eyed as the red-haired man continued to rant nonsensically. Cloud was simply glad that the man seemed so enamored by his own voice to almost ignore Cloud's existence altogether.

The ill-fated delivery boy took this time to tune out the male diva as much as possible, straighten himself a little on the couch, and look around the apartment in which he was currently being held prisoner. As Genesis had so kindly pointed out, they were situated in the living room. The couch where Cloud lay forlorn was across from a huge flat-screen TV that devoured the opposite wall. There was a floor-to-ceiling window covered by navy blue curtains, a glass coffee table, and dark gray carpeting. If he angled his head just right, Cloud could make out the alcove behind him where Angeal had disappeared into—that must have been the kitchen—and a long, dark hallway where he could see a row of closed doors. And, alas! To the right of that enormous HDTV, which Cloud knew he could never afford, was the front door: his one hope of freedom and retaining his anal virginity.

Cloud gazed longingly at the door, dreaming that by sheer mental energy and puppy dog eyes, it would swing open and he'd be long-gone from this wretched hell of a bachelor pad.

While concocting fantastical modes of his heroic escape, however, Cloud was suddenly dragged back to his dire situation when his ears caught words from Genesis's spewing mouth.

"—I mean look at you. You're nothing but a scrawny brat from some hick-town, no doubt. I honest don't see what Zack sees in you. Sure, your eyes are rather pretty and your freckles might be considered adorable but—"

Zack? Zack…where had Cloud heard that name before?

Oh.

Oh.

Oh. That Zack—the Zack Fair who ogled him and leered at him and molested him and had brought upon him this wretched, cruel fate. Zack, how Cloud loathed him.

"I don't understand why Zack would need anybody else anyway. I mean if he wants pretty eyes and gorgeous hair he already has Sephiroth, doesn't he? Besides, it's not like you could possibly compare to Sephiroth in any sort of way. Though you do look like you'd be considerably more submissive than that green-eyed bastard. I wonder what kind of delicious sounds you would—"

Sephiroth? Sephiroth?...Seph?

Oh.

Oh.

Oh. That Sephiroth—the Sephiroth who looked down at him from the corner of his eyes like he was some insignificant insect and humiliated him as easy as breathing and had instilled into Cloud a deadly fear of elevators. Sephiroth, how Cloud loathed him.

Cloud was busy fermenting in his rage when Angeal finally returned to the living room, ice pack in one hand, suspicious tube of something in the other.

"Sorry that took so long," he said. "I couldn't find the rubbing ointment among all the lubric—stuff."

Luckily, however, Angeal had no reason to worry about his little verbal slip-up because obviously, no one was paying attention to him. Genesis, as usual, was rambling madly to himself and Cloud, the poor boy, was eyeing the front door intensely, blues eyes bulging and glazed over.

Cloud only jolted out of his fantasies of choking Zack Fair with the heel of his boot and strangling Sephiroth with his own hair before feeding their mangled bodies to rabid chocobos and then presenting the ensuing excrement as fertilzer to that cute flower girl down the road when Angeal kneeled next to the couch, on the end where his feet lay.

"What are you doing!" Cloud yelped when Angeal began tugging on one of his boots.

The older man eyed him quizzically. "I'm taking off your shoes so I can take care of your sprained ankle."

Many thoughts ran through Cloud's head—the most unimportant flashed across his mind in glaringly neon-cerulean: What if his feet smelled? How humiliating would that be?

"Ahaha. You know, it really is not that bad. Resting here has been more than enough."

"Oh? Laying here for ten minutes has been enough to complete heal the sprained ankle that had you whimpering in agony? I find that rather hard to believe—unless your ankle is not, in fact, sprained. Which would mean you lied to me and betrayed my trust and good-will. Which would make me very, very _upset_. And who knows what I'd do if I were upset. Right, Genesis?"

The blonde snapped his head to look at the aforementioned man and watched in horror as the red-haired man nodded solemnly.

"Nghumm."

"Good." Angeal smiled. "Now be a good boy and let me take care of this exasperating ankle of yours."

"Nghumm."

If before Cloud had given up on life, now he'd forsaken his existence entirely. Damn if the Goddess enjoyed watching him squirm, damn if Genesis wouldn't shut the hell up, damn if Angeal had some hell-bent martyr syndrome. If Cloud Strife was damned to a life of sexy, frightening, looming men and twenty-four hours of embarrassment, he'd take it.

Vaguely, Cloud registered Angeal tugging off his boots and slipping off his shoes, rolling up his pants, and massaging his supposedly devastated ankle. There was a warm tingle and Cloud had to admit that Angeal's large calloused hands felt rather nice. The warmth quickly subsided and was replaced with a stinging coldness as Angeal placed the icepack. The sudden drastic change made Cloud hiss and groan.

It took a good number of seconds for Cloud to stop glaring and moaning at the freezing icepack on his ankle to realize that Genesis was, for the lack of a better word, leering at him. It reminded him of the one time he'd gone to the Midgar Zoo for his tenth birthday. Cloud had been standing at the Behemoth exhibit, watching Cupcake, the zoo's famed fifteen-year-old behemoth. A chocobo had somehow escaped its pen that day and had found its way into Cupcake's den. It was all so exciting! As a boy, he watched Cupcake circle around the chocobo, looking at it the way Genesis was now looking at him. Cupcake had watched the chocobo, even jabbed out its hand to play with it—how cute, they're playing, Cloud had thought—until Cupcake ate the chocobo. Ate it. Ate it. Ate it. Like a hamburger. Or apple pie. Or something really yummy tasting and chewy. Yeah.

Cloud looked at Genesis from the corner of his eye—the man was still giving him that all-too-familiar look with the narrowed eyes, the smirking lips.

_Oh_, Cloud realized, _he's a cannibal. _

The blonde felt his gut rise into his already parched throat and frantically looked at Angeal for help. But to his horror, the black-haired man was also giving him the same look, although somewhat more subdued than Genesis.

_Oh fuck,_ Cloud realized, _they're all cannibals._

It had all been a ploy, all of it! Cloud was certain now. Every instant, every moment, it had all been planned from the very beginning. Zack Fair would lure Cloud to the apartment under the guise of a customer, Sephiroth would humiliate him to extreme extents which would force him use the stairs and then they knew that Cloud would be so exhausted from climbing tens of flights of stairs that he would spill water on himself and be embarrassed and then Angeal would appear and Cloud would pretend to have a sprained ankle to avoid embarrassment and then he'd lug Cloud to his apartment and then they'd distract him by having Genesis never shut up and then and then and then…they'd eat him.

How foolish he'd been!

And now, now he was trapped, trapped like a mouse, trapped like a fly to honey, trapped like a thong between a one-armed, burly, black man's asscheeks. It was over; his pitiful twenty-three year old life was over.

As the men continued to stare at him, Cloud forlornly tossed himself into the abyss of his groveling mind.

First they would nibble on his unveiled toes for an appetizer and then gnaw on his calves as an entrée. They'd fry his nails and rub him over in grease and oil, paying particular attention to his buttcheeks, before impaling him on a metal pipe and roasting him over a low fire until he was nice and tender and juicy and medium rare. They'd eat as much of him as they could on the first night and then cut up the rest of him and stick him in plastic Tupperware and into the freezer. On Friday nights, their designated leftovers day, they would take him out and fry him on a warm skillet and make delicious Cloud sandwiches for dinner. Some mayo, a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, maybe some mustard or thousand island if they were feeling exotic.

Oh woe, he mourned, oh woe is Cloud Strife.

Unbeknownst to him, Cloud's mental analysis of his impending demise took up several minutes. When he finally returned to his cruel reality, the ice was gone and Angeal's hands were on him again, wrapping a bandage around the damned ankle that got him here in the first place.

The blonde truly wished that these men would simply throw the charades and get it over with. The fear and anticipation were making him feel sicker than he already did.

"Alright, Cloud." Angeal finished tying the bandage and sat on his heels. "That should do it, just some more rest and you should be good to go."

"Stop it." Cloud growled.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said stop it, I know what you are! What you all are! Don't think you can fool me."

Angeal gave him a puzzled look, exchanged glances with Genesis who shrugged nonchalantly and then returned his gaze back to Cloud. "You know…what we are?"

"Yeah, that's right." Cloud tried his best to sound imposing. "I know."

"And what, exactly, are we?"

"You're—you're," Cloud attempted to steel himself. "You're man-eaters."

Cloud only continued to glare defiantly as they burst out laughing: Angeal chuckled softly to himself and Genesis threw his head back and guffawed. Their laughing fit lasted for a while before finally subsiding.

Genesis snorted. "I guess that's one way of putting it."

"I know, so enough of this buttering me up already." Cloud's voice strained, he was close to sobbing hysterics—but tried to sound confident. "Just do it already. Stop playing games with me and get it over with."

Suddenly the smile was gone from both Genesis and Angeal's faces. They were both staring intently at him and Cloud began to doubt whether putting on a brave front was a good idea after all.

"You sure about that, brat?" For some reason Genesis' voice had deepened, his voice a breathy whisper that sent chills down Cloud's spine.

Angeal's voice was similarly hushed, but not as unsettling. "Genesis, no."

"You heard him, Angeal. The boy wants it."

"No, Genesis, he—"

But Angeal's voice was lost on Cloud's ears when he abruptly felt hands gripping his hair tightly and a pair of lips forcing themselves onto his own. The blonde gasped at the sudden impact and all of a sudden, a tongue was pushing its way into his mouth.

_Oh damn_, Cloud mentally screamed, _I was wrong! I was so wrong—he's going to eat my tongue first!_

Cloud wheezed for air when Genesis finally released him, lack of air making his eyes water and cheeks flush. One of Genesis' hands was still gripping his hair and the man was now on his knees, staring down at Cloud in some way the blond couldn't comprehend. Angeal was also staring at him but did not move. Instead, the large man seemed to stiffen, his hands fisted in his lap so tightly that he was trembling all over.

"Goddess," Genesis murmured over him, warm breath gliding over Cloud's swollen lips. "You're delicious."

Cloud only stared up at him, wide-eyed and frightened out of his wits.

Genesis raised his other hand that wasn't tangled in his Cloud's hair and pressed his thumb against the poor boy's wet, red lips. "I could just eat. You. Up."

Cloud was sure he just peed himself a little.

Certainly, certainly, things couldn't' get worse than this.

But hell, was he wrong.

A sudden click echoed throughout the apartment's heavy silence.

Agonizing horror numbed Cloud's mind as the front door suddenly swung open to reveal the two masterminds who started all this in the first place.

* * *

><p>Well, a chapter three…wow. That's an amazing feat for me. Like, seriously, seriously amazing. I hope you guys enjoyed it. Feedback is much appreciated and encouraging.<p>

Hell, my laptop broke the other day and I lost a lot of work for my other stories so encouragement is really much needed. But hopefully this update streak will continue.

Thanks for reading,

bs


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